


Dragon Ball Z: Gods and Monsters

by SundropTsu



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fantasy, Fights, In this fandom?, Major character death - Freeform, kind of, multi-chapter, not really - Freeform, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-16 06:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16948467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundropTsu/pseuds/SundropTsu
Summary: In our gods, we trusted. In our gods, we placed our faith. Our future.They created, and then they took away. They were different, then: but all the same, gods are gods. Oh, what is the rage, the grief, the pleading of a mortal but a trifle— a speck to be brushed from their shoulder? It seems there is no escape from that thing, their design we call Fate — not even in the afterlife.





	1. Prologue:

Nestled deep in the farthest recess of his mind, he drifted in a sort of solace, though his might be a humiliation to the word. He simmered, his soul yet raw and thrumming from the titanic effort of his latest tantrum, one that, once, would have bid the very scaffold of the galaxy quake in a mad moment of terror. He kept himself barely under control, if only for the calming necessity of sentience; for, without that factor to part him from those lesser beings, what would he become? He had already glimpsed a sliver of that possible fate, the effect of his continued, futile rage. Screaming out into the infinite blackness, reduced to hardly anything more than a writhing, mindless mess trapped within the cage of his own, empty conscious... he'd fall unhinged from the deprivation of it all, his lack of sensation driving him to an edge of depravity he had never imagined possible. And the Makers had called it a display of "charity"! A given grace to a monster undeserving of the gift of life itself!

No, no no! he thought, Those swine just didn't have the power to finish me off, as they well should have!

The mere memory of it pitched him into another explosive fit of fury, his essence further unraveling from its fragile spool.

THeIRs WaS A MiSTaKE! he cried out into abyss, feeling for all the world too similar to a rabid animal on the verge of collapse. He could see it now, in his mind, his form a replica of that frenzied beast backed into a corner, thrashing from side to side, desperately searching for some grounding medium out of which he could garner some sense of sanity. No, no, he was better than this, wasn't he? He was a GOD, and they could not take that from him! Yes, he was the muse from which was inspired all those fantastically horrid tales one might tell their children to frighten them into obedience. The lurking, displaced deity observing their zealots from the shadows afar; forgotten by the centuries, unwelcome, abandoned and powerless.

Powerless.

Oh, YES, a fatal mistake, he reconciled. Leaving me alive has only served to provide me time; time to fabricate my revenge!

Oh, and how sweet that revenge would be.

Occupied as he was, spinning webs of intricate schemes and treacherous plots (the stuff of unspeakable murder, really), he was taken by surprise when a rift was rent through the seams of his reality. The light spilling through the rift shined brighter than a thousand suns, a brilliance so dazzling and piercing as to reduce him to a cowering invalid. He shied away from the glare, and endeavored to shield himself from the awful, scouring glow like a foul creature of the night. Its cleansing, caustic nature sprayed about him in gilded sheets, scorching against the tainted veneer of his vile psyche. Blinding as it was, a radiant lightning storm, he endured until, at last, he had cultivated an ample resilience to its near-divine strength.

Bracing himself, he peered closer at the rift, spying its jagged brink, like a tear in the flesh. A hazardous, peculiar sense of hope frothed up in his mind, countless possibilities that ran through his fraying head like tap water, each going too fast to elaborate upon before he snapped. Had they been in a physical mode of reality, one might have witnessed him launch himself at the breach in a stroke of utter madness, captivated entirely by the mystery of the fissure's potential. He pawed and scrabbled at the serrated edges, vying for a grip on the fracture to stare through into the other side. As he came close enough to press an eye to the figurative looking glass, all went still in his existence, bated breath catching in his throat.

Yes, yes, YES! You damnable, filthy cretins!

There, before the shell of his physical body, was a ring of lowly mortals about his feet. They appeared as ants before his enormous form, little stumps of things cloaked in shadow. Warlocks, he assumed, their Gregorian chanting swelling in a chorus of unintelligible words and syllables that, blended together in that precise way of theirs, fabricated the heart of their black magics.

Oh, their efforts were not lost in vain, he knew for certain. Drilling into the hull of his prison, the warlocks' sorcery hacked apart the finely crafted spellwork of the Makers, chipping away at the seams of him. He had been rendered catatonic by his fellow gods, locked up within his own body and frozen still. Now, all their meticulous labor with those foolish, draining incantations were to be undone at the hands of mortals. Mortals! The mere thought of it riled him silly.

Each strike of the black magic against his ancient husk fired shivers about his deadened flesh, tremors of sensation wriggling through the concourse of his wakening form. How strange and wonderful it was, to feel again, with each pulse of the witchcraft around him throbbing in concert alongside the rousing of his presently feeble heart. And how quickly his senses returned to him! The rift had been no rift at all, but rather the first piece of his puzzle being torn away.

First came his eye, as each and every chunk of carved stone fell away from his whole. He could feel it spin in his skull, adjusting itself after years of neglect and misuse, the pupil contracting and expanding as it grew used to the new, natural light of the world. Then, his tongue; it lay thick and heavy in his jaw, and he lolled it around his mouth, tasting the bitter unrealness of the magic at work like a splash of salt. 

The rest of his nervous system followed after, sensation seeping back into him as a wave against the sand. It came, crashing and heaving, snarling a thrill of vertigo about his legs and neck that invited only a strange quiver of delight at its mere perception. He flexed his limbs and digits, rolling the gargantuan broadness of his shoulders, and letting the enormous length of his tail whip and lash. Oh it felt so good to be alive again! The dark blood in his veins was pumping, pulsing in his titanic ears, and he parted his jaws for a monstrous cry that rattled the planet he had been stationed upon. 

Then, a noise. A small, gnat of sound pricked at his ear, and suddenly vexed, he drew his impatient gaze down upon the earth far below, searching for the source of the nettling racket. As before, he now noticed, the warlocks that had brought about his freedom were still in a formation that encircled his feet, though they had scattered a bit, their circle ragged and misshapen. They had vaguely dispersed, moving frantically to avoid the falling boulders and slabs of rock tumbling off of his body. Presently, they gawked in shock and awe at the reality of the creature they had summoned, trembling, paralyzed in fear. 

How small they were… he could quash them with a single step, if he were so inclined. No. That would be barbaric. After all, they were the ones who had freed him of his shackles. Treating them with some semblance more dignity than the immense loathing he bore for them currently would have been a more appropriate stance; and yet, indulging in that lingering, morbidly familiar sense of madness felt as an all the more enticing choice. 

Their wicked, pitiful prayers and cries for mercy fell upon deaf ears. In a single stride, silence once more consumed the solar system. As he raised his head to the heavens and looked out into the infinite blackness, the full scope of his punishment was made known to him.

For his prison, the edge of the universe was a poor choice of locale, for though he was nowhere near any form of life (at even the most base definition of the word), the Makers’ brainless decision had provided him the opportunity of attack from any side.

The thought of revenge had never seemed so sweet.

And then, an epiphany. The revelation, it danced and swirled about in his head, growing greater and more elaborate with each passing moment. Yes… yes, how marvelous... it seems they couldn’t erase every blemish of mine…

Traces of his power, from that time long past, yet remained in the universe, stained too deeply into the fabric of creation to be ripped out. The Makers had tried to weave over his ‘mistakes’, and though their attempt was admirable at best, like a fingerprint or unseen wisp of scent in the forest, his hold on their precious cosmos had not wholly been removed. From the inside, he would demolish the Kais’ beloved work like a virus, and he knew just where to start.

How curious… he thought as he prepared to depart, angling his regard upon the far away site of his destination. They permitted a seed of mine to slip through…

He afforded himself no further indulgence of such folly, such waste of time. He would need to act fast, then nurture a new virtue of patience, for he knew that fortune came to those who wait. 

Oh, how comforting it was, in a way, to utilize that long lost power of his. Testing and flexing the scope of his renewing abilities, there was pleasure in the familiarity of it all as he utilized his favored form of passage. He commanded his body crumble under the strength of his will, the remains of him nothing more than a storm of ash and dust carried off by the tugging, unseen threads of gravity and cosmic winds.

It’s showtime.  
…  
…  
… 

His was perfect, the ultimate perception of sound and scent, touch and taste. All of this made up for the glaring flaw in his person, offering him a fruitful perk or two. His spirit knew greater liberation, greater mastery, where his eyes had yet failed him.

Strolling into the tunnel, escaping from under the shaded veil of night, he slackened his gait, surrendering unto the cadence and choir of the world's innate beauty. The flickering of the torches sounded fiercely in his ears, a pleasant ambiance in concert with the echoes of his footfalls about the hall.

Then that world of calm and quiet went away. He breached some unseen boundary, and the very air around him seized up with a peculiar heaviness, lurching as though mirroring the sway of the tides. He halted immediately in his tracks.

Something was not right. The natural balance was upset.

Hurrying along, though attempting to maintain some semblance of nonchalance, he made his way to the end of the hall. As he made for the throne room, a stark realization began to peck at his peripherals, growing bolder with every step. Though he could not see it, there was the shadow of a man at the edge of the room ahead, and the soul, how familiar it was...

His mouth went dry at the thought, his wariness made manifest. Just steps away, he slowed, his pace like that of a snail's. Assuming his typical stance, he approached the man at the foot of the throne room.

"I assume my faith in you is not misplaced, my lord." he inquired quietly.

"Oracle, you know me." said the man.

"I do. Such is the reason why I shall not question the presence of a dead man in the throne room."

He felt the other's eyes upon him, but he carried on, shameless.

The corpse was lying there in the center of the floor, face pressed against the stonework, heaved onto its side. Oh, and the smell! They were in the company of Death, and the room was wreathed in that pungent musk of rot and decay. The mere smell of it wriggled in his skin, as revolting as the peeling back of his nails. How long had the unfortunate fellow been abandoned to the elements... 

Something inside him shifted as that brief moment began to stretch, when soon he needed a change of topic, some distracting ephemera.

"However, I am here to bring up what has been a pressing concern of mine. Permission to seek audience with the King?" it was a mouthful to say, and that came at the consequence of his natural, musical inflection.

“Permission granted. Oracle, you should know by now, there is no need to be so formal with me!” 

Those words — from his King, his friend! — they broke him; nevertheless, he forged on.

“I understand. I am simply maintaining my position as impartial adviser to the Queen and King.” he supplied, rolling his shoulders. After a moment’s pause, Oracle fastened his wrapped, sightless gaze upon his comrade. “Drago, does the Lady still intend to perform the ritual?”

The intensity of his Lordship’s glare sharpened, though no anger serrated those dark eyes. No.. it was something else entirely. If Drago had been with bated breath, he’d concealed it well. Oracle’s King heaved a great sigh, the tension coiling in his muscles unwinding.

“Aye, she does. Within the coming month, I think.” Drago divulged, the exhaustion in his voice utterly betraying him. 

“She does recall that it requires five Saiyans of righteous endeavor, correct?” he pointed out.

“I’m certain she knows. She intends to go on with her plans, regardless of our caution.” Drago snapped. Oracle repressed the urge to flinch at that. He likened the temper in his companion’s utterance to the bite of a thorn.

Impatience, Oracle surmised. But why?

“Oracle, you are dismissed.” ordered Drago, never once gracing his old friend with the affirmation of even the smallest of glances. He peered down upon the dead man before him, so taken, so enraptured in his stare that Oracle might have made the assumption that he wasn’t all there.

“My lord?” inquired the adviser, leaning to, perchance, catch the eyes of his occupied King. Tickled, Oracle shook out his head, shifting the place of the bang clipping out of his inscribed blindfold.

“Leave, my friend. I require solitude.” came the curt reply.

Not daring to test the temper of his King any further, Oracle straightened, lacing his fingers behind his back, the wide hems of his sleeves falling over the detail of his hands. Offering a quiet word of farewell, Oracle made to depart, turning on his heel in a single, graceful movement.

On his brief journey from the throne room, the adviser finally found the word to entitle the hideous, unbearable sentiment rising in his belly, and shaking up his once-serene thoughts like a swarm of bees. Suspicion. Doubt, skepticism, and all their intolerable allies had been given purchase in his deportment after that curious encounter with Drago, and Oracle despised that. He cherished and upheld himself as the impartial medium between all the evils of the mortal soul, and relished in never knowing the taint of such corruption. He could not boast that position now, and more than that, he knew he could not trust the man who had been his closest companion. Cold blood now soaked that man’s hands, and Drago could not tell him why. While Oracle knew that secrets would be secrets, the evident severity of this one, he understood, spelled chaos for all involved. Of this, he was certain. 

/\/\/\/

That was close... too close.. Idle and uncomfortable in his own skin, Drago yielded to his ravenous need and distracted himself, massaging his brow with calloused fingers. Oh how he hated this, concealing secrets from his kingdom, from the two most trusted people in his life! He couldn't reveal this to them now, though, could he? It was far too late in the game, they'd think him mad, out of his mind, and with good reason...

What, the King of all Saiyans talking to the voices in his head? Pursuing nonsense, 'prophetic' dreams of untold death and destruction?

Slowly, slowly, his trembling hand dropped, and free of selfish diversion, Drago looked down upon his vile work.

Slaughtering his own, all for a farce that may never pan out.

He gulped down the cold saliva pooling in his jaw.

Gods, what had he done…

Drago’s stomach turned, hot bile bubbling up into his throat. Nausea snatched at him, sinking its ill, quivering teeth into his veins. The room felt suddenly constricting, tight and musty and-

Something slammed against him, and he stumbled, catching himself as he staggered a step back. When he made to look up, dread petrified his insides, calcifying every fleck of hope.

The room was filled with smoke and dappled with ash. Where once torches had brightened the hall, casting the throne room in a comfortable orange glow, darkness pervaded every nook and cranny. It was as if all the light in the world had been snuffed out, save for the phantasmal gray haunting the room like a low fog. Specks of dust choked out the air, hanging suspended about the room and drifting lazily.

Drago shivered at the eldritch scene before him, taken with the sense that he’d stepped into the aftermath of a planet’s death.

In that instant, the obscuring veil of sooty specks halted, unmoving. In the blink of an eye (he missed it), all the grime clogging the air spiralled into a furious vortex, the mad winds swiping mercilessly at him before all fell still again.

Wary of another, lurking tempest, Drago moved at a more lax pace as he made to look up and survey the room. His arm, braced just before his eyes, lowered steadily when he came to realize that the throne room had again returned to its regular state. The torches crackled at the edges of the hall, but that was it. Something, though, pricked at the back of his mind. There was something missing…

“I assume you are the one with whom I spoke of the nigh apocalypse?”

Unseen fingers melted through his chest and grasped at his heart, crushing, suffocating. The cadaver was alive. Standing and stretching out its rusting limbs, the carcass he’d harvested was animated before him once more.

Tendrils of power were unraveling from this thing, and though he could not physically feel them, the very thought of the energy this abomination possessed turned Drago’s blood to ice. There was no limit to it; it kept going and going. The longer Drago tried to gauge its level, the more endless the level of spirit grew. It made his head spin, vertigo seizing him in a death roll. The tendrils snaked along his arms, his legs, his neck, and squeezed. Drago couldn’t breathe.

Never before had he, in all of his life, felt so small and frightened as he did now. Beneath the corpse’s all-consuming, molten gold glare, Drago lost himself in an oblivion of his own making.

“Hm?”

Choking on a gasp, Drago desperately attempted to quell the trembling in his hands.The body moved, face to face with him now, and Drago could not comprehend a moment of it. As he summoned the courage and words to speak, Drago found himself beguiled by the cadaver’s dark, captivating aspect. 

“Aye. I am.” was all he could muster, hacking up the syllables against his own inhibitions.

Lips moved, grinning beneath an untamed, protruding tangle of beard. “Good, good. We have much to do. Much to discuss.” said the dead man, retreating a pace. 

This was what he’d slaughtered that man for. He’d killed him in an ambush, a cloak-and-dagger affair. Drago simmered, feeling hollow and rotten. That was no way to die; the fellow hadn’t even had the chance to fight back! He didn’t even remember the sacrifice’s name. What was it…

“Tell me, do you have a name?” came the words, unbidden, from his mouth. Another selfish, futile distraction. 

“I have had many names in my lifetime. Too many to count, too insignificant to matter.” said the living carcass, as easily as one would blink. It looked down fondly as it unfolded an arm, flexing its hand and staring as though working a show of magic. Casting a sideways glance, it studied the long member jutting out of its backside, watching with intrigue as its tail swayed from side to side, hypnotic. “Tell me, what was the name of this man, the one you murdered for my vessel?”

The insult, however underhanded, speared into him, simply more salt in his wound. Oh, how his self-hatred boiled!

That was when the realization dawned on him. That’s it.

“Argon. His name was Argon.” he murmured, the words soft-spoken as a drifting feather.

“A sturdy title… it will do. Now, the time for preparation has come.” proclaimed the monstrosity possessing Argon’s dead body. It took up a peculiar stance, stamping its fists at the small of its back. Drago was with a sense that he’d seen that same posture somewhere else before, but where…

“Come,” beckoned the possessor, having strode past Drago, all the way to the mouth of the palace tunnel. Drago submitted, doing as commanded. His was a slower gait, though they strolled side by side into the darkened hall when he’d found his footing.

Drago could not help but feel kept under lock and lead beneath the cadaver’s glowing stare and cunning, ivory smile. The unseen leash constricted tight around his throat, and as the pair of them stepped out into the crisp night air, he wanted nothing more than to melt into the nihility of the vast universe. Kept secured and fastened to his new, vile duty by the fiend at his side, such a fate had become all but impossible.

After a time, the reality of his present destiny, once a fuse at the ready, exploded in his mind. Like a drug, the truth of it all filled up his veins, sedating his every thought. Before, he might have supplied some form of resistance against this threat. Now, all he knew was the macabre sincerity of this terminal, irrevocable death sentence.

In the moment of his final realization, he felt as if it had taken all his strength to turn, and gaze at his executioner. Perhaps it had.

“There is a pawn that we need. It is necessary to our plans, and I understand that you may be familiar with its name.” drawled the new Argon, preoccupied as he examined the sprawling metropolis spreading out from the foot of the palace. “Tell me, do you know of the one they call Freeza?”


	2. The Arrival

It beckoned her, almost. Far below, miles beneath the underbelly of her ship, there was an ocean that danced and clashed with a magnificence found only in the primal wilderness of nature. The waves, black and sapphire and tipped with icy white froth, they crashed against each other over and over in a perpetual, tumultuous fit. The discordant sea bred sounds like calamitous thunder, and threw them howling into endless sky above, those cries a faint wail in her ears as they cascaded away. *How marvelous…* 

A hand came down upon her shoulder, and fished her from the depths of her reverie. The hook must have knocked against her heart on the way out, though, for her pulse exploded inside the frame of her chest. Before fight or flight could sink its claws into her, the vague feel of the palm grazing her flesh commanded her attention first, and by instinct alone did she raise a hand, hesitantly bracing it atop the stranger's fingers. Ah, yes... she could tell who it was merely by the dips, and grooves about their flattened fist. She could know those scars, those callouses anywhere.

"Drago, you startled me." she jested, cuffing his thigh with a quick, playful flick of her tail. Quitting her feather-light hold on him, she lifted that hand of hers to correct a stray strand of hair. Curling it back around the shell of her ear, a fingernail caught against the brassy face of her golden headband, its jewels winking under the open sunlight.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." came Drago's teasing reply, giving her slight frame a friendly jostle. Sidling closer, he let his tender grip slide down along Celaria's lithe, curving form, wrapping his arm about her slender waist. The man hugged Celaria close, locking their mouths in a passionate kiss. After a moment, his partner smiled into him before parting, drawing back until they were but a hair’s breadth apart.

“You’re chapped.”

“I know.”

Celaria groaned, shoving his face away, though feeling his lips part in a quiet fit of laughter that rumbled from his belly. Shaking her head, she took a step, breaking the intimacy between them. She folded her arms just beneath her breast, her consort, matching her pose at her opposite side. Curiously, he leaned forth, a seed of intrigue sowed in him as he tilted to catch a glimpse of the world below. Daring to take a further step, Drago edged closer to the brink of the helicarrier deck, gazing down. “Are you ready, Celaria?” he inquired in earnest, not yet parting his eyes from the mesmerizing dance of the sea. “You’re about to see your son again.”

Settling back, he ogled the woman beside him, fastening upon her a subtle, probing stare. She was graceful, even in undergoing the simplest, most primal of mortal acts. The mere deed of breathing flattered her too, in a most elegant way, befitting of a Queen. The aforementioned notion wrought a sigh from her.

“Aye. That we are.” Drago blinked, catching her correction. “Ready, or not, I must be prepared to confront my past.” said she, uneasily shifting her weight from foot to foot. In a flash, she aimed her mighty regard upon Drago. “Are you certain that this is no vain endeavor?” cried Celaria, the call for respect in her eyes wavering as her stability faltered. Backing away from Drago, she paced anxiously for a few strides, the ground beneath her feet intriguing her so that one might have thought it held all the answers she had ever needed. Then, quick as an arrow, she pinned her wild glare on him once more. “Do you think…” Celaria cut herself off with a huff. Pressing the meat of her palm to her forehead, she sank into her own embrace as an exhausted man might sink into his bed. “Perhaps he is dead, and all that awaits us here is sorrow.”

“Celaria,” sighed Drago, turning to face his partner. In a few steps, he salvaged that lost intimacy, taking her delicate hand in his own. Squeezing in reassurance, he neared closer to his wife, till no empty space dared to part them. “You must go through with this. Whatever the state of your son, you owe it to yourself to find out. It will kill you if you continue to leave yourself in the dark.”

Celaria deflated, and in the shade of him, she seemed far younger, and far frailer than he knew her to be. “You are right.” she whispered, leaning against him, and finding a sense of support in the sturdiness of his form. Her lips slipped and slid against the broad face of his chest as she spoke. “Though I stand in the company of defeat, you are here to guide me through, as you have before. I will brave this trial, if you should go with me.”

In no grand gesture of adoration, but a simple, subtle token of quiet passion, she wrapped her fingers tight around those of her husband’s, slotting their digits together in a nod to that sense of something which they both understood; something beyond the reins of mortal words.

“As always, my love.”

"Are you two finished eating each others' hearts out yet?" heckled a bold new voice. The bewitching tones tucked under the gravel in the interloper's words summoned up a name that Celaria paired with its inflection, and begrudgingly, she disjoined herself from the comforting grip of her King. Equipping a mask of regality and spirit, she stepped over the broken shards of that moment they’d spend in exquisite rapport. She sauntered forth toward the newcomer, carried by a winsome sway that guided her hips.

Celaria halted after only a few steps, satisfied to watch as the interrupter took their sweet time to meet her. Oh how impudent that man was! And yet, somehow, Celaria felt it in her heart that it was all in good fun, a cheeky little aspect of his that she couldn't bring herself to reprimand. In any other case, she would have reproached those who dared to disrespect her in that way. As she watched, though, something about that man enthralled her, unique to that instant, like a fascinating gleam folded into the shadows about a faraway nook. The longer she gazed, the greater she felt as though she were traveling down a tunnel which had no end, but held the nameless treasure she had been searching for; she could not convince herself to look away, lest she lose the hints of that thing which she could not place, though knew was there.

That's what she would have likened it to: a black hole. All of it bolstered that comparison of grand, astral repute; the way that confounding, intriguing mystery of his tugged at her fascinated regard, and the way his dusky aspect seemed to pull in all the light of the bright sky, only for the morning brilliance to utterly vanish against him. In fact, out of her time spent with the man, no other encounter with him had ever impressed in Celaria's mind the image of a living, breathing shadow as this present one did. No color yet dared to defy his deathly gloom, save for the pulsing smolder of his two, molten gold eyes.

“Well?” he inquired. Celaria blinked, taking a steadying breath. It was as if he had appeared before her in an instant, for she last recalled him to be many paces away. Face to face with the man, she quickly mustered a reply.

“Aye.” Celaria affirmed, passing him an appraising look. Disregarding the turning of her stomach, she spoke again. “Perhaps you should speak with a deal more reverence for your reigning Queen. While you are one of my top advisers, Argon, you should watch your tone. I believe you were the one who was late to our agreed-upon time of assembly.”

“Right you are. Apologies, my liege.” supplied the royal counselor in riposte. With a gaudy flourish, Argon bowed before his Queen.

“That’s quite alright. Just- Argon, do not sink that low. Obsequity is not flattering.”

“You hurt me, Celaria. Ah, but all is well. All things aside, I assume you have finished up your business? We ought to get going.”

“I believe we have.” Celaria assessed Drago, though not expecting the sight she saw as she turned.

Beside her, the sovereign King embraced a ravenous visage: like that of a wolf shackled to the passive post of a watchdog. Never before had she seen such toxic hatred boil there in the eyes of the man she loved, nor felt such tension coil in his veins like a snake aiming for the kill. Perturbed, Celaria touched his arm, feeling his pulse thrum swiftly, and hotly against his skin, mirroring that of a trapped, panicked bird. He was warm, and volatile, and he ground his teeth in some form of a self-pacifying effort. She was made to recoil, if only to avoid a lashing by Drago's flicking tail. Its fur had seized up, fluffed and raised, just as her partner’s hackles were.

As if to signal his return to consciousness from that apparent haze of rage, Drago’s lips quirked, settling into a fine scowl as he curled his tail tight around his waist.

“Quite.” snarled the King, never once laboring to remove his gaze from that of Argon’s. Celaria dared to search in her adviser’s eyes for whatever it was that had set off her husband in such a manner, only to find a glitter of amusement speckled there about his black irises, beside the glare of the unspoiled sun. If she ventured to look further within his aspect, she might have seen the ridges of a faint grin uplifting Argon’s lips, just beneath the jutting tangle of his beard.

“I can see that you two have your own affairs to handle.” deflected the Queen warily, eyes narrowed as she peered at the two men before her. “Please, be brief about it, or at least find pause for another day. Your foolish dispute, or whatever it is, can wait. As you made clear when you so rudely interrupted us, Argon, we must get going. The Terrans must be suspicious of us by now.”

Taking in a full, deep breath, Drago unwound himself from that dangerous spool of wrath, though let it be known that he still seethed with fury beneath the surface. Opening his eyes, he found that his wife had turned her back on them, standing idly by the edge of the helicarrier. *Awaiting us, I suppose*. He conjectured. Shaking himself out, as if to dust off his burdens, Drago made to accompany his Queen.

“Ah ah ah, not so fast.” hissed Argon under his breath. The adviser reached out, taking up Drago’s bicep in hand. Squeezing, he steered the Saiyan back to his side, pressing his fingertips hard into the King’s dusky flesh. Argon leered as he spied Drago clench his jaw.

“I have not uttered a word that might, in *any* way, divulge our heinous schemes, fiend.” snapped Drago. He spit at Argon’s boots. “What could you possibly want? It isn’t yet time. Or, have plans changed?”

"No, no." soothed Argon, a matronly tone woven in about his condescending words. As the royal adviser drew his grasping hand away, ill-defined bruises arose, mottling Drago's shoulder. You could only see them if you tried. "It's just, you mortals lie so wearily often, how can I trust a word you say?"

Like the meeting of two trains on a single track, their eyes met, and the locomotives neither slowed nor stopped. At the figurative moment of impact, something -- a scourge of unseen power -- whipped against the soft spot at the side of Drago's head, burrowing through the delicate flesh and bone like a maggot through a carrion heap, straight into the raw meat of his subconscious. It twisted and tore into him, peeling back countless mental layers. Pain fired through every little nerve in his body at each fracture of his cerebral threads, until the agony came at even the mere plucking of his fragile neural strands.

Argon was playing him like a harp, strumming at the cords of his inner conscious with a deadly precision, awaiting the moment he collapsed under the feeble frame of his fast-crumbling resilience. The tease and torture of it all was excruciating, and he knew Argon found unspeakable pleasure in each drawn out huff and shift in his stance. He would bear the pain, though; he *had* to. The bet in their furtive game was suspicion, and if for a moment he found himself faltering, he knew that victory would forever be lost. If, at any time, Drago divulged clues of his agony, or merely let slip hints at the burden of his malicious secrets, by mistake or otherwise, the consequences would see no end.

"Shall we?" begun Argon, gesturing innocently toward the Queen. As though on cue, Celaria glanced back at the pair of them. Drago caught her eyes, and found that her own strength put him to shame.

He looked away, and with a downcast gaze offered Argon a vague nod. Together, the two accompanied their Queen down to the planet below, hurtling off of the helicarrier's edge one by one, 'till they all raced against the screaming wind. Akin to the retracting claws of a wary beast, Drago felt the tendrils of Argon’s mind-bending power retreat, slithering back to whatever endless font of power they had sprung from. At last, he was alone in his own mind, the thoughts there numb, and raw, and tender as they attempted to piece themselves back together. For once, Drago understood why some mortals cracked under pressure, reduced to nothing more than huddled, writhing, whispering messes in the corners of dark rooms.

The King retired, for a time, within himself, settling into a sort of autopilot as he flew alongside his small party. He closed his eyes against the wailing breeze, the cold bite of it refreshing as it blasted along his smooth flesh. So deep was he, in his little reverie, that he was made to open his eyes when the howls of the ocean cried into his ears. As well, he was desperate to relieve his senses of their sore ache, and so he closed his mind’s eye from use. Without his sixth sense, he was made to change direction manually, to maintain formation and avoid diving straight into the ocean.

As he adjusted, the frothy spray of the waves eased his wounded psyche, as if it were a real, hot, throbbing bruise soothed by ice. He did not complain, though, as such was an eldritch miracle of nature. Again, he drowned himself in the comforting chaos of the maelstrom sea, before his wife called out to them and, for the final time, he dredged himself out of his moment of serenity.

“There, at the horizon.” she shouted above the din. “We will wait at the coast. If we receive no confrontation soon, we shall return to the ship.”

“And then, my Queen?” inquired Argon.

Celaria spared him a steely glance, but did not satisfy him with an answer. Instead, she bolstered her speed and took off toward the golden shore ahead of them, white flecks of spirit spitting off of her aura as she went. Argon and Drago followed suit, quick to match her pace. Closer and closer grew the distant seaside, until, before they knew it, they had finally reached their destination. Descending from their perch within the cradle of the bright, open sky, the three Saiyans landed upon warm, dazzling yellow sands. Each footfall was silenced and cushioned by the grainy earth as they strode to meet the response team that the Terrans had, evidently, supplied to meet them with. 

Matched on either side by the imposing countenances of her adviser and husband, Celaria swapped glances with them in a sort of ready check. Argon offered a slight nod, standing by, while Drago seemed to have lost all that toxic hatred from minutes before. In his eyes, she found a vital reserve of confidence and courage that she knew no shame in drawing from. In his meager smile, she found stability, and Celaria shared of his magnetic character. In that moment, she *needed* such inspiration and security.

When they were face to face with the five Terrans before them, nothing to part the two groups save for that understood berth of respect and caution, their parley began.

WWWW

“Who are you, and what do you want with Earth?” commanded Goku, in those fruity, orotund tones so characteristic of him. He had moved forward, the king piece of their faction, and awaited the reply of the opposition.

There they were, squaring off against foreigners from beyond the stars, each with unsettling strength in their own right. There was much to take in, in the second’s respite following his demand. Too much to believe. Yet, with his children, Vegeta, and Trunks at his back, he faced this threat with confidence.

“I am Celaria, and these are my companions Drago, and Argon.” proclaimed the woman heading group of outlanders, gesturing to each man in turn. Son Goku hastened to examine the contenders, eager to gauge their chances.

Drago he liked; while both men were with dark, dusky flesh, it was Drago who gave off an air of sparking charisma that Goku couldn't help but gravitate to. The corners of his thin lips perked up, as though a habit from a natural smile, and his eyes, while sharp and keen, had a brightness about their dark irises that attracted only friendly curiosity. He was well built, that was certain, for his muscles bulged out against tight skin and tighter fabric, finely defined beneath his sleeveless black jumpsuit. Once or twice, the earthly Saiyan noticed, Drago glanced up at a bothersome strand straying out from his short, windblown hair. As he moved to smooth it back, Goku decided that there was no need for hostility with this one yet.

Argon, however, was another story entirely. It was difficult to meet his eyes, let alone study him to his best, yet subtle ability; the sheer strength in the glow of his yellow eyes summoned up some ill feeling in Goku's belly. That sensation, it boiled with every uneasy gulp he took, though he tried to quell his discomfort and that foolish urge. Distracting himself, Goku instead peered at his aspect alone, spying the sun catching against Argon's bald head, and noticing the utter blackness to his wiry, protruding beard. At his back, a tail swayed, rhythmic as the flowing tides. Kakarot was tempted to surrender himself to its faint trance, but reasoned against his haywire inhibitions, instead bracing himself to determine the levels of these men’s power.

Closing his eyes, free from the heat of that watching golden stare, he unleashed the sixth sense of his soul and attempted to grasp a bare idea of their abilities...

...

Nothing. He could perceive nothing of either Drago or Argon's potential. Though they were living beings as far as he knew, they gave off no signal of life that he could detect.

That was when his alarm went through the roof.

"We have come peacefully, in search of my son. My sources indicate that he may reside here, and we want only to convince him to return home with us, where he rightfully belongs." explained the woman- 'Celaria'. She, too, sustained a commanding presence, though as if for the fair and undivided attention of her audience, and Goku decided that he need not raise his hackles quite yet.

Save for her other, dreadfully unpleasant comrade, Celaria appeared the most striking of her crew. At her waist, a long band of brass snugly girded her hips, forming the belt which pinned up her breechcloth, a sheet of crimson fabric here and there embroidered with deep scarlet intricacies, like spilled wine. At the center of that loincloth, a crest was stitched in yellow linen, the symbol strange and pointed, with a curved bottom: Goku likened it to some peculiar anchor. Surrounding the 'anchor' were six small, rich gems that glittered under the noon sunlight, some of which matched the gems encrusted upon the woman's golden headband, a crown of sorts. The top of a navy jumpsuit clothed her breast and throat tightly, as though it had been painted on, leaving her arms, shoulders and legs exposed to the elements. At her neck hung a necklace, small pins and beads making up its chain while a solid stone pendant dangled from its bottom.

Praised by the stark backing of her long, raven mane and the radiance of the bright morning, Goku glimpsed many faint, pearly scars scored into Celaria's person. Bleach white marks laced her bronze skin about her biceps and thighs, wordless exaltation of her certain prowess in battle. Kakarot found himself with admiration for the decorated warrioress, though he maintained his adamant guard to the last. These were outlanders, whose true strength they did not know, and while he itched to test them, and learn them, his first duty was to protect his family, his friends, and his home. The time for sating his primal desires would come later. For now,

“Oh, really?” he blurted, snapping out of his trance. “What’s his name? Vegeta, do you think we know him?”

Embracing a visage like that of a fuming dragon, Vegeta stepped forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with his rival. Arms crossed at his chest, the elder fighter made to speak.

“Perhaps.” came the prince’s whisper. Assuming a greater volume, he addressed the outlanders. “What is your son’s name? The intrigue is *killing* me.”

Goku eyed his friend. He wasn’t worried in the least, though the sarcasm today was at a level higher than usual, nearly as palpable as the tension twisting Vegeta’s form into knots tighter than a bowstring. The young martial artist lingered for only a heartbeat or two longer on the issue before shrugging it off, returning to the matter at hand.

With a smile playing at her lips, Celaria declared, “Why, it is you, Vegeta.”

Vegeta drew his head sharply back in suspicion, and the Queen could see in his narrowed eyes the feral, untamed river of thoughts that rushed suddenly into his head. The belief, the disbelief; the hundreds of calculations of chances and hazards, and so much more that Celaria withdrew the readied words on her tongue. She would give him the time he needed to process. 

However, to her surprise, he ripped the prospect of speech from her mouth, and carelessly cast away that gift of recess.

“Impossible.” he asserted, “Nearly all the Saiyans died years ago. The only survivors are myself and Kakarot.” Vegeta supported this with a jerk of his head, gesturing to his rival.

“Not as impossible as you might think, my son. Though it saddens me that you do not remember the face of your own mother after all of these years, I must ask, do you remember that day? The day that Freeza gave the command to return to our planet?”

There was no spoken answer, but she could see it in his eyes, past all the countless thoughts running through Vegeta's head. The memory was there, and it was a painful one. The passage of time had not been kind, she supposed.

Celaria continued. “Well, not all of us were as fond of your father's decision to merge with the Freeza Force as some. In their own, small acts of defiance, some Saiyans remained off world, including myself. The news of Vegeta's destruction was devastating, yes, but after the rage and the sorrow, I knew something had to be done. I gathered my old comrades, and any stragglers we could find. With some scavenging and... appropriation, what remained of the Saiyans came together on a new planet, one which we now *thrive* on! Under our leadership,” Celaria paused, exchanging a glance with Drago. “we have grown, and now, nothing can bring us down so low again as Freeza once did.”

“Hold your tongue, wretch!” interjected Vegeta. He strode a pace forward, ‘till he was face to face with Celaria. A space lesser than a hair’s breadth parted the two, and the Queen could spy her own reflection there in the livid black irises of her son. She did not flinch away, though, instead remaining adamant against his fury. Her tail flicked once, and her lips debated between a simper and a smile.

“You may boast the visage of that woman you claim to be, but make no mistake, you are nothing but a ghost from a long-dead past! Choose your next words very carefully, for you have *long* overstayed your welcome.”  
Celaria allowed Vegeta that acute berth between them, the space forged out of his anger and zeal. She did not move, did not rupture the fine tether snaring their gazes together. Rather, she measured the depth of her son, seeing for herself how grandly the weight of the ages had shaped him, beyond the furious passion of the present tucked there in the windows to his soul. Celaria toiled in this endeavor for only a moment, though, and bid herself return to the matter at hand shortly. This was no time for her matronly affairs.

“Here,” she began, reaching around the column of her neck to grasp at something there.

Vegeta retreated a step, having loosely collected himself from his state of unbridled temper. Though he remained nettled, he would allow this woman the courtesy of a retort; then, perhaps they could more quickly bring this encounter to a close. Mayhap the infinitesimal seeds of intrigue played a part in his generous silence and withdrawal as well, though such an admission would be kept behind closed lips.

“This was found on the wreckage of one of Freeza’s ships during a salvage run. Our technicians did their best to piece it back together.” drawing her arm forward, Celaria revealed that of a modest necklace draped across one hand. Its charm dangled heavily, the chain slung about the curve of her fingers. “It was your father’s.”

The prince accepted the trinket without pause or hesitation, taking it up and bringing it close to his inspecting eyes. Time had not harbored the ornament in kind; it was crafted of stonework, and had been dealt a merciless fate. The pendant at its lowest point was a round disc, and it had suffered many cracks and fractures along its surface. Somehow, by the mighty handiwork of several skilled hands, it had been liberated from a broken, forgotten destiny. *Turquoise,* recalled the prince as he studied the old necklace. The disc had been fashioned of polished, engraved turquoise, with a lone pearl to crown its center. Presently, the thing hardly held a candle to its former self, its rich shine and luster lost to the ravages of existence. Now, it was faded, and if Vegeta looked close enough, he believed he could see faint splotches of red smeared here and there: splashes of blood stained too deeply into the stone to ever be washed out. The chain, too, had not evaded ruination. Vegeta remembered the necklace’s link had been molded of some alien metal, gold and glossy. By now, the brassy chain had calcified, leaving nothing to admire but some hard, dull, rawboned pins and beads.

None of this mattered in the least. Not right now, not to him. Exhuming from the very essence of the stonework itself were memories Vegeta had buried in that long-ago time, where they belonged. Some were bitter, others were sweet (in a way unique only to Vegeta), and some further still were of a kind that deserved to stay in their grave. Celaria had done him less than a favor in handing him this ancient burden.

So thoroughly enthralled was Vegeta by the nostalgic, eldritch nature of the heirloom held in his hand that he only found himself dredged out of his reverie when, from the nooks of his peripherals, he had noticed Celaria pull back to the safety of her crew. Vegeta reciprocated her maneuver, side-by-side with Kakarot as he recovered his stern, stalwart character.

In the beginning, Celaria only had eyes for her son. Hands folded atop each other at her waist, she regarded the prince. “I see you cannot be convinced with ease, my son. Just like your father.” sorrow gilded her words in ebony, rather than gold leaf, yet she continued strong. Having earned the attention of the earthlings, she hastened to address them all. “We have much to discuss, for it has been far too long since last I set eyes upon you. So, I offer a deal. I will extend my original proposal to all of you; come, return with us to our planet and see for yourself the reality of our truths. My comrades and I will come back in the morrow, then, anyone who wishes to go back with us will have safe passage on our ship. Until that time comes, however, we will depart in peace. Strong will and strong spirit to you all.”

Turning, Celaria delegated with her comrades in hushed tones. Many heartbeats passed before she regarded the earthlings once more in wordless scrutiny, appraising in turn each foreign soul until she dared to offer herself a final perusal of her long-lost child. She said nothing, merely supplying a gentle nod and salute, a token of obeisance once customary of her people. Her companions parted ways from the assembly without another word, the two men never once heeding that common law of formality as she had. Celaria lingered, affording herself only a moment longer; it was a mother’s desire in her to indulge in perusing that man who stood before her, that she could impress in her mind the image of Vegeta, vested in the havoc of time and tide. 

Respect, and a sense of maternal melancholy urged her away. At last, Celaria drew apart from the gathered earthlings. Mustering her energy, the Queen ascended headlong into the sky, her takeoff blasting a crater into the golden shore. Eager to replenish the fresh cavity, countless grains of sand spilled into the hole, sealing it up just as a legion of sapphire waves washed onto the coast, erasing any notion that the outlanders had been there at all.

Above the tumult of the ocean, silence wrapped around the group of earthly Saiyans and squeezed. Harrowed by the recent encounter, no soul dared to break the mute fast. Some allowed their curiosity an iota of free rein, venturing to peer at their fellow warriors, eyes flicking anxiously. Others kept to themselves, filing through the onslaught of new information with something less than poise. Either way, one among them let slip his inquisitive wit.

“Dad, what was that?” asked Trunks, sprinting to his father’s side. He gazed eagerly up at his sire, the enthusiasm bubbling in his blood chilling into something far less ecstatic as time went on. Vegeta provided no answer; he had lost himself in oblivion, eyes enraptured by the spot at which Celaria had stood. He turned the necklace charm over and over in his hand, fingers toying absently at its now hoary, lifeless gems.

At once, he stopped, his digits clenching about the stonework disc. As if he had only just heard Trunks’ plea, he rearranged his vacant gaze, though to his son’s surprise, those ebony irises fixed themselves upon the even line of the bright horizon, rather than he.

“That was nothing,” muttered the prince, his grip tightening. “Come. Let’s go home.” 

Vegeta departed the second the words rolled from his lips, shelled by an ethereal aura as he cascaded into the heavens. The man never looked back to establish that his son had followed.

In his confusion and reluctance, Trunks exchanged a glance with Goten, but theirs was brief. The boy did not want to test his father’s patience that day, and so catapulted after him, speeding to catch up. The only remaining contenders there on the shore were the Son family, and they too were quick to retire. 

Son Gohan was the first of their broken group to withdraw. As a unit, they had traveled far from the fated seaside, and when they had come about halfway between their homes, Gohan halted. With a quick farewell, Goku’s eldest child parted ways from his brother and father, making haste toward his own home; his wife would surely demand a rundown of what had happened, and perhaps that would give him the structure he needed to fully process the intricacies of today’s encounter.

Elsewhere, Son Goku and his youngest ventured homeward. Goten itched to articulate his questions, but kept his mouth shut: anxiety had netted itself about him like a snare, despite the boy knowing, in his heart, that the kindness of his father would not spoil into vexation upon speaking. Little did he know, his father greatly shared his sense of trepidation. The grand warrior kept up his gilded conviction, though, if only to comfort Chi-Chi and his son. 

Goku could not shake his unease, as if probing eyes were boring into him from beyond the blue of the sky, peering into his blood, and bones, straight into the hull of his soul. Somewhere, deep in the abyss of his mind, the Saiyan wondered if ever there had been a peace broken as fast as this.


	3. Two Hearts, pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! Just a quick update, I had wanted this to be a two part chapter, but like, all in one chapter. So, it was intended to be longer, but I couldn't wait to share this with you, so here you go. Enjoy! (Part two is in the works, about halfway finished! Expect it soon.)

Like a novel coin trick, he rolled the necklace pendant across his knuckles; over and over the weighty charm went, until, with a gentle toss, he snatched up the thing in his palm. Its chain hung loosely over the lip of his fingers, the bauble cast in a moonlight finish. All that astral praise, though, did little to help how crudely the ravages of time had harbored the finery. Corroded into a lump of matte rubbish, most eyes would find faults wherever they dared to examine the old trinket. However, phantoms of the rare, exotic craftsmanship worked into the necklace surfaced at his touch - his ginger, tactile study. Vague flecks of remembrances speckled his mind's eye, like the colored film before a projector, and Vegeta wondered why doubt had ever been a part of this. It should have been easy, a simple, one-word answer to her proposal.

Deflating with a sigh, the prince leaned against the balcony railing, gripping tight the necklace in his hand. He and his son had returned home, and he’d relayed the day’s events to Bulma. They’d spoken, yes, but it was all small talk over the matter; the real words would come later. 

Night had settled over the world at last, and while the moon had a while to go before its journey could come to an end, its purity had already been spoiled. City lights stifled the sky and all its starry wonder, leaving the heavens obscured by a tangerine haze.

Empty. The stained black firmament was empty, as far as the eye could see here, save for the pearly moon. In a word, it felt smothering.

Vegeta remained this way, lax and morose, for a time, until the life-energy woven into the air shifted. Someone stood in the doorway, but feeling bold, they strode forth onto the balcony. Their footfalls were hushed, for their feet were bare.

"Bulma." he greeted, his voice gruff. There were some things he knew that he could recognize without so much as a turn of his head; she was one of them. He had attuned himself so finely to the intricacies of her spirit that Vegeta was certain he could sense her from planets away.

Shoulder to shoulder with the prince, Capsule Corp's heiress stargazed alongside her partner- or, perhaps 'city-gazed' was the correct term? Either way, the two searched among the far away heavens for things neither of them could tag a name to, knowing their little quest was futile. The sky was (and would forever be) cold, cruel, and oh so distant from the mortal children which it sheltered. 

Despite the fast-tumbling stream of thoughts filling him up, there was one clear subject he knew required addressing. They both recognized that, despite how often that evening they’d danced and tiptoed around the issue.

Turning, he regarded the woman at his side. “Bulma, I need to know how you feel about me going with Celaria tomorrow.” the question, so raw and paramount, wasn’t easy; he forced it from his mouth, the words heavy on his tongue as they dropped from his lips like marbles. This instance of desired assent was the first of its kind, for him. He had to get it right.

"Well, I don't know if I like the idea of you going out into God-knows-where space again..." murmured Bulma, rubbing her arms. Whether the chill of the night were getting to her, or she were dreading something else entirely, Vegeta would never know. "but," she began again, quitting her anxious gesture. "I trust you." affirmed the blue-haired beauty, embracing the balcony railing. "I trust you to make the right decision."

After this, with eyes like a wanderlusting explorer, Bulma surveyed the expanse of the city sweeping out before them. The bright, metropolitan lights were something Vegeta thought suited her as they glared against her tender skin. Yes, the effulgent, neon brilliance adorned her as though the crown jewels on a queen. For a few, unburdened moments, Vegeta studied her, and wondered if his daily offerings were, and would ever truly be enough; like a peasant before their god, he proffered to her all that he was able, in a show of reverence unique only to him. He wondered, too, if his daily, self-seeking endeavors mattered to her, and her sentiments, as much as he thought them to.

Vegeta was not a fool; he knew the delicacy of a bond such as theirs. They had a past ragged with strain, struggle, and grief, among other things. This issue, while not a token of utter desertion, did present a strikingly similar scenario to their grave history, and Vegeta would have understood Bulma had she not permitted him her word of approval. She had given her consent, if his inference about the vague script of her reply were anything to go by, and that was enough for him. He said nothing more, knowing they were each burdened as it was.

Once, he might have disregarded Bulma's stance entirely, and go to accompany Celaria without a second thought. Now, begrudgingly, Vegeta would admit that this life had changed him, in more ways than one. In the dark silence of a night not long ago past, he had made the promise to himself, and in a way, to his wife, that he would never again abandon her so recklessly as he once had. As well, the prince would confess that he would never even entertain such an awful idea, presently.

Absently, during this reverie of thought, he had continued to watch over Bulma, his eyes following the curving, graceful lines of her figure as they went. Tracing the shape of her, he admired the allure and beauty of his partner. She was in a thin white tank top, and shorts hiked up a little too far on her waist, the clothes doing nothing but aiding in her elegance, although Vegeta was not afraid of admitting that she looked just as well with nothing on. In fact, that brought to mind an idea...

In a flash, he appeared at Bulma's other side, reaching for her, and pulling her close. 

"Vegeta?" Startled, she lurched, and Vegeta relished at her surprised little gasp. The two of them were so close that their breath melded, hot in the cool night air. Walking them to their shared bedroom, past the sliding glass balcony doors and onto the soft, plush carpeting, the prince lay his wife down along the flat face of their bed with a great tenderness in his motions that Bulma had seldom experienced before. She sank lightly back, surrendering unto the cradle of the supple comforter, shifting her slender legs so that they might straddle her standing partner's. Shocked as she was at the sudden display, Bulma's wariness began to fade as Vegeta leaned over her, one hand pressed gently at the junction of her neck and shoulder, the other carding his fingers through her hair. Vegeta held at the crown of her head, a feather-light clench of his grip, and he bowed lower to connect their lips. Bulma abandoned herself into the intimate embrace, tilting her chin up, that she could bring herself closer and deepen their kiss. 

When Vegeta pulled away, she chased after him for a split-second before yielding under his continued care; the man pressed countless more kisses against her, to her throat, the line of her jaw, her brow and even to the sensitive spot just at the shell of her ear. There, he whispered things, some sweet nothings, then other, more sultry affections. And, further still, some soothing words he hoped might put to ease her anxious spirit.

"I will not leave you, not forever,"

"I _will_ return,"

"You're not going to lose me,"

This all carried on for quite some time, the pair lost into the throes of their chaste ecstasy. In the end, when the sun at last reclaimed the world from night's lulling grasp, Vegeta found himself lying in the middle of the bed, half undressed, with Bulma resting atop him, fitting neatly into the slopes and niches of his figure. With her head against his chest, she had relented into slumber, drowned contently in the soothing music of Vegeta's pulse and heartbeat.

He hadn't found himself afforded such a mercy, though, and had lain awake through the hours, even after his wife had fallen asleep. At the break of dawn, Vegeta sighed and tilted his head back to gaze at the shaded ceiling, shifting the arm wrapped about Bulma's waist to run his fingers through her soft blue hair. Turning, he spied the necklace on the bedstand at their left; he’d placed it there just before they’d retired for the night.

Today was the day. In a short time, he would be on another world, confronting a past he had long since come to terms with, and buried.

This... this would be a trying experience.

**Author's Note:**

>  _OMG_ guys! I figured out how to do italics!


End file.
